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And the Sky Fell Down Around Me
Now he’s the emperor of the stars, and I get to be me.
He’s been up there for just about six years now. For nearly six years, my ex-husband has been a God, and I have gotten to be me.
The transmissions from him are grainy, and the backdrop isn’t grand enough to give off the kind of impression he’d like. It’s too cramped, with duct tape holding the cabinets shut. When he sits down to eat, the food is grey and soft. He shits in a bag. Pees down a tube. In the hydroponic garden the tomatoes are a withering, sickly yellow. Most of this he takes great pains to hide from the public, and all his fans. But I’ve seen it, he’s called me.
The lag in the connection makes it harder for him to seem confident and in control. He’s not the type to ask you to repeat what you’ve said, instead he blusters through a reaction based on a guess. At times he looks clammy and confused. At first I thought it was disgust at me, at what I’ve become, but that’s not all of it. His nutrition is poor, and he rarely gets to stretch his legs. The only person he has to fuck is his secretary. So I get why he doesn’t show what it’s like, or how he looks.
Mostly, my ex-husband makes his grand statements through social media. You still get a sense of what he thinks about all the strikes, and the torrential downpours…
